Waiting for Number 69 The moonlight, silvery, the night warm and still He holding her hand pulls her up the hill. At the summit, in dark shadows a deserted bus stop. Apart from an owl in the distance, you can hear a pin drop. She urgently pulls him into the shelter, into the black. Tongues darting, hands are gliding, reserve is starting to crack. With open hands he combs his fingers through her fiery red hair. Of the rest...